


I Love You (I Know)

by claimedbydaryl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Demisexual Steve Rogers, Feels, Fluff, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Pansexual Sam Wilson, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Bucky Barnes, Softcore Lumberjack Steve Rogers, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, but everyone is punk, tattoos and plaid and the whole shebang, wow there's a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-01 22:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5223965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes, a punk tattoo artist and self-professsed scruffy-looking nerf-herder, never expected to willing step foot inside the neighbouring flower shop to his retro tattoo parlour. And he also never expected that Steve Rogers, his childhood crush turned devastatingly handsome florist, to own the place.</p><p>This is a modern tale of hopeless pining, inordinate amounts of plaid shirts worn and tattoos described, Star Wars marathons and obscure references, and two tragically normal men who begin to realise that they had loved each other just as much as they did as kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget-Me-Nots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget-me-nots; symbolises faithful love and memories.

Admittedly, Bucky had never thought much of his neighbouring florist shop, Brooklyn Bouquets. It was the bright, airy, nauseatingly cheery pastel-shaded counterpoint to his retro tattoo parlour, The Red Star. But the lease at his tattoo shop had been cheap, his landlord was a decent sort, and the adjacent apartment upstairs meant Bucky had a place to sleep.

Despite using the majority of space for a disorganised office and miscellaneous supplies, Bucky had enough room to push a bed up against the wall below the window and furnish the place with a few living items. And from his bed he could watch the sky turn from gold to blue to pink as the day wore on, when work hadn’t run him ragged—it was like Bucky’s own personal view of Brooklyn.

He’d spent countless mornings sitting up in twisted bedsheets on a creaking mattress, watching the city wake up in the golden-honey glow of early sunshine, the edges of brick buildings silhouetted by the overreaching sky. It reminded him of delicate, blue forget-me-nots blooming in a small window box, of homemade slices of apple pie and ice cream, of a smiling boy with blond hair and blue eyes.

Bucky sighed before walking towards the entrance of the florist’s shop. Ceramic pots hung from the open windows, and the green wooden panelling and lush flower display inspired an inviting, calm ambience. A bell rung with a trilling twinkle as Bucky pushed inside Brooklyn Bouquets, greeted to the sight of a wide array of colourful flowers and a wealth of sunlight.

Bucky hadn’t set foot in a place so wholesome in years. Quickly looking down, Bucky belatedly realised that he wouldn’t leave a positive lasting impression, or even make a decent one to start with.

The knees of Bucky’s black skinny jeans were tattered. His aviator shades were tucked into the loose neck of his fashionably moth-eaten tank top, resting over the words _Bad Wolf_ emblazoned across his chest. A few inlaid jewels and a large skull patterned his silver knuckles, two black rings pierced his eyebrow, and his ears were adorned in sleek array of metal.

Bucky reached up to self-consciously rub his bare arm and his studded leather wrist cuff caught against the dark ink of his skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in a hanging ornate mirror and his teeth sunk into his lower lip apprehensively.

Bucky’s hair had been shaved on the sides but left long on the top, and thankfully he’d pulled the dark brown hank into a messy but serviceable ponytail. Although the handkerchief knotted around his neck didn’t do much to deflect from his full sleeve tattoo.

He knew how out of place he looked amongst the assorted brimming greenery and simple yet aesthetically pleasing furnishings, but he needed to find Nat something for her birthday. And fuck Sam for not telling him sooner but Nat’s shift started in twenty minutes and he needed a plausible excuse for a present _now_.

Bucky approached the unoccupied front counter and was about to call out when a man bustled through the back door, holding a large armful of blue violets, sneezing violently. The forest green apron he was wearing bore the Brooklyn Bouquets’ logo, so it was clear he worked here—although his outward appearance resembled anything but that of a conventional florist.

The man was holding a hand over his mouth as he sneezed, so his face was mostly obscured, but Bucky could glean a neat, blond comb-over and a strong, clean-shaven jawline. The bare skin of his face and arms was sun-kissed, his footing sure and oddly light, and the wide breadth of his shoulders suggested a well-sculpted physique.

The man lowered the flowers, revealing a buttoned plaid shirt straining over his chest, and the flash of a simple tattoo on his wrist. In any other circumstances Bucky would’ve thought he was attractive, and maybe would’ve asked him to a date after finding Nat a decent present, but—

But—

“St-Steve?” Bucky spluttered. “Steve Rogers?”

The man—Steve, it was _Steve_ —stopped, blearily blinking in the aftershocks of his sneeze.

And _fuck_.

It was Steve, although he had doubled in size, only acting to enhance the strength of his smile, and the influence of his presence. Steve was never someone who was easily heard, but he wasn’t so easily forgotten. And gone was Bucky’s best friend with thin, bird-like shoulders and the biggest smile in Brooklyn—gone was the boy with artistic dove-like hands. Gone was the person who Bucky had known and loved.

And instead it looked the world had finally caught up on how beautiful Steve was on the outside as well as on the inside. About time, too.

“Bucky?” Steve looked surprised, but somehow hopelessly happy. “I thought you—Well, I know for fact that you moved to Europe. What are you doing back in Brooklyn?”

“I—” Bucky swallowed tightly. “I came back,” he finished lamely.

Dammit he used to be good at this.

“I can see that,” Steve said gently, fondly, like they hadn’t said their goodbyes almost eight years ago. And then, with a bouquet of blue violets cradled in his arms, Steve smiled and—

_Bucky was sitting on Steve’s doorstep as a child, watching a smaller Steve draw along the length of his arm. Steve had started at his fingertips, painstakingly tracing a realistic stencil of metal armouring along his hands, and then detailing the plating over his arm. His skin was marked with black lines, intersected with the hint of crimson, leading to the red star over Bucky’s heart._

_And then Steve’s mom was sitting beside them, quietly whispering that it was time for Bucky to go. Steve looked up at him with wet eyes, although Bucky had been watching tears slide down his cheeks for the better part of the last ten minutes. And he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to say goodbye to Steve—_

“Bucky?” Steve said, and then he was suddenly within close proximity to Bucky, his voice soft with concern. “You right?” The violets were resting on the countertop, lovely and abandoned. Steve had laid a reassuring hand on Bucky’s shoulder sometime before, and the pressure was a warm, consistent comfort.

“Yeah, I just—” Bucky shook his head. “It’s been a while since I last saw you. A real long time. I’m just a little shocked, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Bucky looked away for a moment, hating that he felt a disappointed pang of loss as Steve’s hand receded. Who knew that he’d say goodbye to his best friend at sixteen only to meet him later, working as a florist in the shop next to his tattoo parlour, looking like some sort of softcore lumberjack wet dream?

Bucky felt a tentative graze of touch over his left arm, at the point of his elbow. He glanced at Steve, who was transfixed on the design—it was _Steve’s_ design, only immortalised on Bucky’s skin.

“How did you…” Steve trailed off.                                                                

“My parents let me get it done not long after we moved, like a consolation prize.”

Steve finally looked at him, and he was so close that Bucky startled at the familiar blue of his irises. His profile was more stalwart, a little stiff and proud in the tilt of his chin, but it was so undoubtedly Steve. He had the same slow, curving smile, and long, elegant fingers.

Bucky opened his mouth to say something stupid—I missed you, maybe—but never found the courage to actively voice his thoughts. Eight years later and he still couldn’t speak a goddamn word of truth to Steve.

“What are you here for, anyway?” Steve asked, moving to stand behind the counter. It didn’t escape Bucky how Steve had noticed and thankfully ignored Bucky’s momentary lapse.

“I own the tattoo parlour next door.”

Steve’s brows lifted, and then he shook his head ruefully. “Sam called you James.”

“Sam never even bothered to mention you. Or anyone—” Bucky stopped, realising that he was just about to call Steve ungodly attractive, or something equally as embarrassing, _aloud_. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Knowing him, he probably set this up.”

Steve agreed, laughing faintly under his breath.

A beat of silence, and then: “I knock off work about mid-afternoon, and Nat and Clint close up shop for me on Mondays. And I… I live in the apartment upstairs. You can come and… oh God I don’t know what I’m saying here, but—”

“I finish up at three,” Steve interrupted smoothly, “although I usually don’t get out till four. I’ll have to organise someone to look after my dog, but I’ll see you then. That okay, Buck?”

Bucky nodded a little too vigorously, silently revelling in Steve’s use of his nickname.

Twenty minutes later Bucky exited Brooklyn Bouquets with a single orchid, carefully wrapped, and a quick note scrawled over the attached card. He walked towards his shop slowly, stunned, still unable to comprehend that Steve owned his neighbouring shop—that he was here.

“Sam,” Bucky called out once he crossed the threshold into his tattoo parlour, “you neglected to tell me who not only worked at Brooklyn Bouquets, but who also owned that fucking place.”

Sam appeared at the open door to the private tattooing room, shrugging in response to Bucky’s berating tone. Natasha smiled in greeting at Bucky from her perch at the front counter, beautiful and vicious in a loose Ramones singlet, tight jeans and winged eyeliner. Half of her head was shaved, showcasing a twisting grey snake barbell in her ear, and she had styled her wavy wine-red hair to cascade over a slim shoulder.

Sam, unlike Bucky and Nat, had opted for a much more conventional appearance. He wore a simple pair of jeans and an olive-green T-shirt, the feathered edges of the large wing tattoo on his back just visible at his collar. His hair was trimmed into a neat crew cut, and the extent of his jewellery was restricted to two black stretchers and a pair of dog tags at his neck.

“Sam, here, now,” Bucky demanded before grandly handing the flower to Nat. “And happy birthday to you from the weekend, fair ye maiden. Steve said orchids symbolise beauty and refinement so, obviously, it reminded me of you. And your dedicate women sensibilities.”

“You’re a gem, James.” Nat smirked wryly, like she hadn’t kicked Bucky’s ass—and whoever else dared to challenge her—on a weekly basis during their boxing sessions.

“So, Steve?” Sam said coolly.

“You do realise I had the biggest crush on him as a kid. Still do, probably.”

“You and Steve?” Sam came to stand at Nat’s side as she crossed her legs daintily, enraptured by their interaction.

Bucky slumped over the counter, pressing his head the cool surface of the laminated tattoo designs. “I don’t think he had any idea, but I’m pretty sure his mom did, god bless her. Actually, I think everyone in a five block radius knew how far gone I was for that punk.” Bucky turned to look up at Sam, his brow creased. “Is he dating anyone?”

Sam and Nat shared a significant glance. “You do know that he’s demisexual, right?”

“And you’re pansexual. And I’m gay. So what?” Bucky implored.

“Being demisexual is like a midpoint between asexual and sexual, meaning he doesn’t feel…” Sam stopped and said instead, “I don’t think I should be the one telling you this, Bucky. It’s Steve’s business.”

Bucky sighed. Steve had been his best friend once, and had been the epicentre of his universe as a child—although it still seemed Bucky’s life was revolving around Steve—but Bucky didn’t know him now. And if Steve would let him, but Bucky wanted to learn everything about him again. His colossally hopeless crush aside, Bucky just wanted to remember what it was like to be around someone who was so inherently good and kind and noble.

“Is he dating anyone?” Bucky repeated meekly.

“He was pretty serious with a girl called Peggy in high school, but she moved back to England a few years ago.” Bucky deflated at the knowledge, already resigned to his fate of pining after his utterly straight former best friend. “But,” Sam continued, “me and him also tried dating for a while there. Although it didn’t last more than a month.”

“Why?” Bucky propped his chin in his hand, telling himself he was not jealous, he _was not_.

“We just worked better as friends.” Sam laughed, mouth curling into a private smile. “Honestly, kissing him was like macking on my brother.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Who else?”

Sam looked at Nat again, and the latter laid a comforting hand on Bucky’s arm. “That’s it, James. Steve has been interested in other people, but he’s only ever been attracted to two of them.”

Bucky was silent for a moment before saying, “He’s still probably the best man I’ve ever known, no matter what his sexuality is.”

Sam and Nat almost looked relieved at his response. And if they saw Bucky retreat to the office upstairs and diligently Google _demisexual_ later, than they didn’t breath a word of it to him.

Afterwards, when Bucky had probably skimmed through about thirty different online articles on the definition of demisexual, he heard Clint call, “Buckaroo, tall, blond and handsome is here!”

Bucky startled in his seat, running a hand over his disarrayed ponytail before descending the stairs. Nat smiled at him from where she was working on a cover-up tattoo with a client, and Bucky offered her a weak shrug in return. Clint was swinging in the revolving chair at the front counter, animatedly engaged in a conversation with Steve when Bucky entered the parlour.

“Hey,” Steve greeted him warmly.

Bucky tried—pitifully—to ignore how the familiar sight of Steve’s smile acted to ease every nerve and every doubt he’d amassed in the past few hours. It was still Steve. It was still the boy he loved. Nothing could change that.

“Hi,” Bucky said, unsure of how he was supposed to act. Of what he was supposed to do.

“You can go upstairs if you want a little more privacy,” Clint suggested with a casual shrug of his shoulders, scratching his purple mohawk with a pen. “Or something.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steve said, looking to Bucky for confirmation.

Bucky nodded, his smile tenuous—he didn’t trust himself to speak just yet.

They ended up on the couch in Bucky’s apartment, laughing at the stilted silence that stretched out between them—they used to be in a constant state of talking and touching, never quiet.

“You really got that because of me?” Steve asked quietly, gesturing at Bucky’s full tattoo sleeve.

Bucky stared down at his arm, flexing his fingers in contemplation. “It was the only piece of you I had left, Stevie. I had to keep that with me somehow,” he said barefacedly, shocked by his own gall. Bucky hadn’t even admitted that to himself just yet.

Steve looked away for a moment before teasingly remarking, “You really do know how to make a guy feel special, Buck.”

Bucky rolled his eyes to hide how much he desperately wished he wasn’t blushing—please for all that is holy don’t let him be blushing. He was a grown-ass man, childhood crushes be damned.

“How much tattoos do you have?” Steve queried.

“About seventeen in total.” Bucky cocked his head, regarding Steve curiously. Steve had a habit of running a hand over his comb-over when he was nervous, but Bucky had been reading his tics for years—he knew what they meant. “You want to see what I got up to when you were gone?”

Steve’s own answering smile took him by surprise.

“So how about we start at the top and make our way down?” Bucky prompted, opting not to wait for a reply before he was already pulling his shirt over his head. He threw the balled-up piece of fabric in the general direction of his bedroom.

“Well sure, Buck, it’s so good to know you appreciate my input on the subject,” Steve said with an exaggerated cheer.

Bucky raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re a funny man, Rogers.”

“Can it, Barnes.” Steve shoved Bucky’s shoulder aside playfully, the corner of his mouth twisted upwards in a smirk.

“So we gonna do this or are you just gonna mock me?”

Steve huffed, raising his hand in a haughty gesture to continue. “Jerk.”

“You’re a punk.” Bucky shifted on the couch, rolling his shoulders back in preparation. He noticed how Steve’s gaze remained firmly fixated on his face, his expression soft with a familiar fondness. “First one is this bad boy,” Bucky said, pointing to the detailed deer skull on his neck, the large antlers wrapped in the tangled tendrils of desert flowers and slight, interlinked chains.

“Nat’s work?” Steve asked—and it turned out he knew everyone working in The Red Star except Bucky. Steve reached out to gently turn Bucky’s chin to the side to assess the meticulous artwork, and Bucky repressed an involuntarily shudder at the touch.

“Yeah,” Bucky affirmed, nodding shakily. “Next is pretty obvious,” Bucky presented his left arm to Steve, holding onto the last dredges of some misplaced hope that Steve would continue touching him. He knew it was wrong to expect something, but Bucky still smiled when he felt Steve’s fingers graze his bicep.

It was his largest tattoo, completely encompassing the entire length of his arm, from fingertips to his shoulder. The design of the tattoo made it looked like skin had been ripped apart to reveal an extensive mechanic skeleton beneath. The tattoo stretched from the bones of his hand up to the shaded plates of his arm and shoulder, extending to the simple red star tattooed over his chest as if it was the integral heart of the machine.

“And turn,” Bucky said, twisting to offer Steve his right arm.

Steve palms were soft and warm against Bucky’s skin, his touch lightly tracing the stencil of three inverted chevrons over the swell of Bucky’s otherwise unadorned bicep. “Sergeant’s insignia?” Steve questioned.

“You know your military ranks, Rogers.” Bucky shifted in his seat, trying to give enough plausible reason for Steve to maintain that steady link of contact. He watched, transfixed, as Steve’s fingers drifted downwards and coaxed Bucky into exposing the underside of his forearm.

It was a compass, simple but elegant, the main intersecting line—a rudimentary outline of arrow—almost three quarters of the length of his forearm. Between the eight separate parts of the compass were eight small circles, each shape shaded in to accurately imitate the moon cycle.

“Clint’s doing, I suppose?” Steve’s thumb rubbed the tail of the arrow, near the sensitive bend of Bucky’s elbow.

“Yeah.”

Steve flashed him a quick smile before raising Bucky’s hand in a gentle hold to scrutinise the four modest Roman numerals just above the point of his knuckles. His brow furrowed, but Steve refrained from asking why Bucky had chosen only the number four instead of five—and, to be honest, Bucky probably couldn’t have answered him. At least not yet.

Bucky flipped his hand and spread his fingers outwards, baring the sigil of the Jedi Order which would forever mark his palm. Steve’s chest rumbled with a baritone ringing of laughter, and his grin was a blinding white in the faded light of the apartment.

“If you dare even mock me, Rogers, I will _end_ this little charade.” Bucky seethed, although the good humour was evident between his faux venom. He could barely suppress the overwhelming urge to match Steve’s delighted grin with an indulgent smirk of his own.

“I wasn’t going to say anything, Buck.”

Bucky coughed in the back of his throat once he realised he’d been staring at Steve—at the sight of his wide, unabashed smile, shining blond hair and blue eyes, which almost rivalled the splendour of the sunset behind him. Bucky shook himself out of his reverie, spinning around to reveal the span of his back and mask the faint red flush of his cheeks. He didn’t know that Steve’s hands had hung suspended in the air for a few moments after, cold with loss. Bucky clenched his fists at the lapse in silence before he felt Steve move closer, exhaling in a soft caress across the back of Bucky’s neck.

The tattoo began at the small of Bucky’s back, just below his waistband, detailing the interlocking bones of spine that followed the natural curve of his back upwards. Although the bones slowly morphed into the intertwined roots of a tree about halfway up, and the spindly black branches stretched outwards over the broad span of his shoulders.

“And here,” Bucky said, lifting his right arm to expose the side of his waist. The tattoo was located near the edge of his ribs, where it would usually be obscured by his hanging elbow. It was a masterpiece of vibrant blues and purples and greens which depicted a decidedly mystical-looking wolf. It mimicked the technique of a watercolour painting, framing the wolf’s face with a luminosity that was almost akin to the starlight, the colours stark and vivid against Bucky’s pale skin.

“I knew you were bound to have something Russian hidden somewhere,” Steve said a few moments later, bending low to read the foreign script—носить пожар в руке и вода в другой руке—below the wolf’s head, running over the edge of his hipbone. “What does it say?”

Bucky turned back to face Steve on the couch, duly noticing the lack of space between the both of them. Bucky knew he had to stop thinking like that—he had to stop perceiving Steve as anyone other than his childhood best friend. Even if Bucky had known—and loved—Steve for longer than most, even if they’d been inseparable on the schoolyard and streets of Brooklyn, and everywhere in-between, that didn’t give him the right to abuse that trust. Not when it was the first time he had seen Steve in about ten years.

“Buck?” Steve repeated, concerned.

Bucky smiled thinly, abandoning that particular train of thought for the time being. “It means ‘to carry fire in one hand and water in the other’,” he explained, attempting to deflect Steve’s pointed look. Bucky’s composure wavered, but he managed to retain his outward expression of carefully constructed flippancy.

Thankfully, Steve didn’t question him any further. Instead, he asked knowingly, “I’m assuming you have a few more tattoos hidden below the belt?”

“One, get your mind out of the gutter.” Bucky held a finger, and this time his smile felt more genuine the second time round, less rigid. He added another finger. “And two, to protect your delicate sensibilities I benevolently choose to refrain from stripping this early in our relationship.”

Steve easy and unaffected expression considerably sobered, causing dread to roil in Bucky’s stomach—fuck, did he step over a line?

“Steve, I—”

“Sam told you, didn’t he?” His voice wasn’t angry, merely quiet.

Bucky swallowed thickly, nodding.

 Steve ran a hand over his mouth in thoughtful contemplation. “You know it really doesn’t change anything between us, right? I felt the same when we were kids, I just didn’t understand why I felt like that yet. I’m still the same person.”

“I know, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, allowing himself to tentatively smile in an effort to assuage Steve’s discomfort. Steve reached out and gripped Bucky’s wrist in gratitude, although there still was a small thread of strain evident in his movements.

“I just have a habit of only dating my friends, is all.” Steve shrugged in lieu of his explanation.

“Peggy and Sam?”

“Yeah,” Steve glanced at him sideways, searchingly. “Wanna know why we broke up?”

“We gotta start somewhere, right?”

Steve seemed to be relaxed by Bucky’s mostly unchanged demeanour, so Bucky leaned forward in anticipation, elbows on his crossed knees and head resting in his hands. He grinned big and dumb, giving Steve his full attention.

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?” Steve laughed loftily on exhale, his gaze running over Bucky’s comically expectant expression. After a beat Steve moved to pull his hand away, reaching up to tug hoodie over his head and passed it to Bucky. “Take that first. You never could handle the cold.”

Bucky did as he was bid with an exasperated roll of the eyes, although Steve’s jumper was large and unbearably soft, caressing his skin like some absurd sort of wearable feathery down. He tugged the hood up over his head and crossed his arms, leaning against the couch to watch Steve settle comfortably in his seat, his blond head cushioned by a bent arm.

“I met Peggy when you were still in Brooklyn, actually,” Steve begun, his speech measured and level. Bucky tried to ignore the pang of disappointment and unfounded jealousy that Peggy had been Steve’s first—first kiss, first girlfriend, and the first one he probably told too. “But it wasn’t until after you left that we became friends. I had my inklings about why I felt the way I did”—Steve glanced at him once before quickly averting his gaze—“but it wasn’t until Peggy and I started dating that I realised why I never really felt attracted to people.”

“Sam said it was like being halfway between asexual and sexual.”

Steve nodded. “Basically, yes. I don’t feel—” Steve stopped, showing the first signs of distress throughout their entire conversation. “I know it’s not really how you wanna spend your night, Bucky. You really don’t need to listen to my journey of self-discovery if you don’t want to.”

Bucky waved a dismissive hand. “Lay it on me, punk. I still have my own revelations to tell.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Jerk. Okay, so I don’t feel any…” Bucky smiled in a languid stretch of his lips, wordlessly encouraging Steve to continue. Steve breathed deeply before continuing, “I don’t feel any sexual attraction or arousal until I form a strong emotional connection with someone. I want a relationship and a house with a picket fence and a joint bank account like every other person; it just makes it harder for me to casually date someone I don’t know, and thus it’s harder for me to begin a relationship.”

“So you’re saying you have to know, or even love, someone before you’re physically attracted to them?” Bucky queried hesitantly.

“Pretty much,” Steve replied. “I was friends with Sam long before I started to feel more than a romantic attraction to him. But, to be honest, we worked much better as friends. We just had different ideas about relationships.”

“And Peggy?”

“She was infinitely patient, probably more than I deserved, and she helped me to understand who I was. It wasn’t until eight months into our relationship that I started to feel more for her, and that affirmed what I’d been beginning to understand about my sexuality. We mutually agreed that it was best to break up when she moved back to England.” Steve sighed before continuing, “I came out to my mom a year after you left, and you can probably guess that she was nothing other than accepting of her biromantic demisexual son.”

“Sarah Rogers is quite the woman,” Bucky admitted, reminiscing a period in his life that had been characterised by warm hands and ready smiles, a home carved out into his heart.

Steve’s expression was warm and tender, the last residual traces of anxiety steadily dissipating. Even if the conversation had felt a little awkward and rudimentary, Bucky was glad that Steve trusted him enough to tell him. Steve had been his best friend growing up, and his first real crush—and fantasy too. But whatever the future would bring, he was happy that they at least had now.

“I missed you, Steve,” Bucky said suddenly, the admission shocking him in its abruptness.

But Steve merely smiled and echoed the sentiment. “I missed you too.” He looked at Bucky for a second, finally comfortable as the atmosphere lapsed into a private, easy-going air. Steve adopted a casual tone as he asked, “And what’s this shocking revelation you were so eager to tell me?”

“I got my asshole tattooed,” Bucky deadpanned.

Steve snorted, the noise loud and unattractive. “What?” His voice was oddly high.

Bucky remained silent, schooling his features into a mask of perfected nonchalance.

“James Buchanan Barnes, tell me this instant if your asshole is tattooed or not.”

Bucky’s shoulders started to shake uncontrollably, and he threw his head back to laugh heartily. The hood slipped back from Bucky’s brow at the uncontrollable force of his own jubilant mirth. Steve apathetically watched Bucky fall off the side of the couch and inelegantly crash on the floor, swearing as his ankle cracked against the nearby coffee table. Steve looped his arms around his knees so he wasn’t in direct proximity of Bucky’s thrashing limbs.

Bucky quieted after a minute, raising himself up onto his elbows to look scathingly upon his former best friend. “Steve Rogers!” He exclaimed. “I am suing you for reckless endangerment once I have regained the ability to walk.”

“What did I do?” Steve objected in mock outrage.

“If you hadn’t made me laugh so hard than maybe I wouldn’t have broken my goddamn foot.”

“And how was I supposed to know if you were drunk enough to have your bare ass tattooed?”

“Because I’m a twenty-four-year-old man, Rogers.” Bucky sat up, wincing at the sudden flare of pain across his tormented diaphragm—note to self: don’t laugh within an arm’s distance to furniture or Steve again. “However,” he countered, propping his elbow on the couch, “I was subject to a disgusting display of manipulation at the hands of my so-called friends who, in their infinite wisdom, persuaded me to get something permanently marked on my body when I was in a completely vulnerable state of inebriation.”

“That was awfully eloquent of you, Buck.”

“I had to redeem myself for this somehow.” Bucky held his left foot up, angling it so Steve could see the small infinity symbol tattooed on his ankle. The sight of it still made him feel like a tragically alternative hipster.

Steve gripped his injured foot gingerly before looking at Bucky through wide eyes, his mouth parted in wonder. He opened his mouth to speak—

“Don’t even start. I’ve heard enough crap from Clint alone.”

Steve magnanimously gestured for him to continue.

“And if you thought my Jedi Order tattoo was bad then wait till you see this,” Bucky said ominously, cocking an eyebrow. He undid his belt in fast succession before pulling the tangled fabric of his pants away. Bucky noticed how decidedly normal it was to be skimpily dressed in a hoodie and briefs in front of Steve, sprawled on the floor of his ramshackle apartment. Bucky should’ve never doubted how easy it was to fall into old habits, because he’d grown up with Steve as a boy, and Bucky was sure he was going to love Steve as the man.

Bucky dropped his leg on the coffee table and pointed to the astrological Zodiac sign on the inside of his right knee. “Because I’m a Pisces. Original, I know.” He pointed to the lower part of his left thigh. The large tattoo was roughly about the size of his hand—it was the world tree of Yggdrasil encircled in a ring of Celtic knots, and a wolf and crow were mirrored on either side of the trunk.

“And for the big finale,” Bucky announced, crawling into the couch and laying on his stomach so Steve had a direct view of the back of his legs. He was almost surprised when Steve pulled Bucky’s feet into his lap and shifted closer so he could thoroughly assess the nerdiest of Bucky’s tattoos. It paid homage to Star Wars in the only way Bucky knew how—thorough inking it over the entire span of his calves.

The red insignia of the Alliance Starbird of the Alliance to Restore the Republic was the centre of his left tattoo, framed against the oblong stencilled background of the Millennium Falcon, Luke’s rebel pilot’s helmet, an X-wing fighter, and R2-D2 and C3PO. On his right calf was the Imperial crest of the Galactic Empire, surrounded by the Death Star, a Tai fighter poised in flight, a Stormtrooper’s helmet and Boba Fett.

Bucky twisted around at the waist, expectantly looking at Steve over his shoulder.

Steve raised his head to meet Bucky’s gaze levelly, hunched over Bucky’s legs and fingertips still absently tracing the wing of the Tai fighter. His expression was unreadable.

“Well?” Bucky prompted.

“You’re a fucking nerd.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You rebel scum,” he hissed.

Steve’s composure slipped and he begun to laugh, and _oh how Bucky had missed that sound._ Bucky had known that Steve was practically the human embodiment of sunshine, but when he laughed he practically _shone_. He smiled, his teeth white and even and perfect, and the corners of his eyes crinkled like a man who had spent his life in good fortune. The whole affect was cemented by the warm glow of his tanned skin and the golden honey of his hair and the soft blue of his eyes.

Bucky hadn’t forgotten how easily Steve was able to steal his breath away.

“Laugh it up,” Bucky said weakly, awkwardly kicking Steve’s stomach, “but I’m sure you have worse than me hidden underneath all that plaid.”

Steve’s pressed a hand over his shaking chest as his mirth subsided, grinning stupidly at Bucky.  Since the moment Bucky had seen Steve—a stranger framed in the doorway of a florist’s shop—he had seemed a little resigned, guarded, but now Bucky saw the boy he knew hidden beneath the man.

“Oh no, that offer was never on the table.” Steve said dismissively.

Bucky gasped dramatically. “I basically just stripped down for your aesthetic viewing pleasure and now you’re the one being modest? Work with me here, Rogers. This is a two-way street.”

“My tattoos are private,” Steve stated quietly, but by no means unkindly. “I’ll never _show_ them. You gotta earn the right to see them.”

Bucky rolled over onto his back and sat up, moving closer to Steve so his outstretched knee brushed Steve’s thigh. “How about we make a deal? If I manage to find all your tattoos than you have to buy me a slice of rhubarb pie and vanilla ice-cream at the diner down on the corner?” Bucky prompted, almost a tad belatedly proud of how his own apparent suave—considering how horribly he’d been failing to woo Steve.

“I promise.”

Bucky spat in his cupped palm and held his arm out. “Spit on it.”

“We’re not twelve, Buck.”

“C’mon, Rogers, I need a little more than good faith here.”

Steve shook his head with fond sort of exasperated amusement, but he proceeded to press his hand to his mouth and spat. He took Bucky’s hand in a firm hold and shook on it, and they shared a carefree smile that was reminiscent of days spent on the streets of Brooklyn, when Bucky’s heart stuttered whenever Steve so much as turned to him and smiled.

“Now,” Bucky said suddenly, subtly pulling his hand from Steve’s grasp and moving to stand. “Sam’s been trying to get me to drink this organic herbal blend for weeks and I’ve never had a reason to brew my own tea. So, you want to give it a go, Stevie?”

Steve’s answering smile was blinding.

After their tea had cooled, and the sky had slipped into a thick swath of blackness, Bucky and Steve continued to talk. Steve unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled it up to his elbows, and his gelled hair had become steadily more dishevelled as the night wore on. And when Bucky found a blanket that could cover both their outstretched legs on the couch, he forgot his outfit was restricted to a jumper and a scanty pair of briefs—although Steve’s hoodie practically engulfed him.

They recited their lives onwards from that fateful day on the doorstep of Steve’s apartment. Bucky’ detailed his eventual return to America, of finding solace in the familiarity of art and a kindred spirit in Natasha, and then Clint’s inevitable integration into their group, and then Sam later during a morning run in the park. Steve’s story was simpler and quaint, central to the heart of Brooklyn—meeting Peggy, experiencing a growth spurt and just about doubling in size through good diet and exercise, quite conveniently falling into the profession of floristry and then managing his own business.

Long after midnight, Bucky farewelled Steve on his own doorstep this time, the blanket heaped on his shoulders and his bare legs shivering in the chilled night air. Steve was rumpled and worn at the edges, soft with drowsiness. And when Steve smiled at Bucky like he used to when they were kids—toothy and careless—and said goodnight, Bucky leaned against the door and contentedly watched his broad back disappear into the night.

Bucky felt as if the years had slowly melted away, like sunshine after a heavy fall snow, like a small garden of forget-me-nots blooming on the edge of a barren window sill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay please tell me if I somehow misrepresented demisexuality in any way, shape, or form, and also hit me up if I messed up the Russian in this because Google can only do so much.
> 
> AND IGNORE THIS WHOLE THING AND JUST FOCUS ON BLANKET CAPES AND PLAID AND TATTOOS ALRIGHT.


	2. Purple Lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple lilac; symbolises the first emotions of love.

Bucky had to open the parlour early the next morning, but he still managed to spare a glance through his bedroom window at the street below upon waking up. He saw a man pause on the other side of the street before crossing, holding a loose leash to a large dog. The golden sunlight haloed his familiar head of blond hair, and Bucky nearly fell off of the bed once he realised it was Steve. He scrambled across his twisted mass of bedsheets to find the window latch and yank it open.

“Stevie!” Bucky called out, shivering slightly in the damp chill of the autumn morning.

Bucky grinned as Steve halted mid-step, glancing around wildly at the sound of his name. His dog pricked his ears in a mirror-like pose of his alert owner.

“Up here, you big git!” Bucky waved.

Steve lifted his head, his gaze landing on Bucky half-hanging out of the window before his face split into an unabashedly joyful grin. He smiled, illuminated against the backdrop of the Brooklyn cityscape, breathtakingly beautiful.

“Why are you still in bed?” Steve asked teasingly.

“Why do you have a dog?” Bucky countered.

“He’s mine, and I have a garden out back of the shop that he can stay in. What’s your excuse?”

“I open in forty minutes.” Bucky paused for a moment before adding, “How about you bring your dog by in forty-five?”

Steve’s ankles snapped together in a mock salute and he continued walking as his dog trotted happily by his side. Bucky tried not to stare at Steve, at the slow movements of his shoulders and the languid, easeful pace of his gait—so unlike his quick, flighty, almost hurried steps as a child. But Bucky tracked Steve’s movements, cataloguing every fluid flex on muscle and every glimmer of sunlight skating across his skin, until he fully disappeared from view.

Bucky flung himself back on the bed, the mattress squeaking in distress under his sudden weight. He was so far gone for Steve—childhood crushes were irrelevant now, no memory was a worthy substitute of the living, breathing Steve that Bucky knew now.

Bucky ran a heavy hand over his face and groaned in the back of his throat before throwing his legs over the side of the bed, the soles of his feet brushing the cold surface of the hardwood floor. He quickly dressed, pulling on dark jeans and a deep V-neck shirt with a loose, ragged neckline that almost looked torn. His thin jacket was cut high on his waist, with studded leather shoulder pads and a collar that was sharply flicked up against his neck on a knife’s edge. Bucky combed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to brush the disarrayed tangles out before jogging downstairs.

Opening shop didn’t require much effort, and soon Bucky was left idly—albeit restlessly—sitting on the front counter, feet kicking outwards in wide loops. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Steve tentatively knocked on the front window of parlour sometime later. And Bucky turned to see him standing at the front door with his dog, waving with a handful of bright yellow tulips—it struck Bucky how much of a giant, hulking dork Steve was, and then it struck him how utterly fucking adorable he was.

Bucky opened the door with a graceful sweep of his arm. “Flowers and a dog? You’re smothering me, Rogers.” He grinned crookedly.

Steve’s smile was slower, more gentle, but comfortably affectionate nonetheless. He held out the yellow tulips with a sort of bashful hesitancy, as if he was both embarrassed of his actions and terrified that Bucky would rebuff him.

“You’re a fucking sap, Stevie,” Bucky said. “But too bad I already like you anyway, because these are real nice. Thanks.”

A surprised laugh caught in Steve’s throat, causing his prior caution to disappear completely. “Do you know that all flowers have a meaning?” He asked after a beat of uncertainty.

“You know that Sam has honestly forced me to sit down and watch _Horrible Histories_ with him on the few days we have off? Trust me, I know—Victorian era, flowerology, meaning through petals or whatever.” Bucky shrugged. “And Sam usually doesn’t engage in activities that don’t include homebrew beer and bettering yourself. You don’t know the half of what he puts me through.”

Steve leaned down to scratch behind his dog’s ears. “I know some of it—old war documentaries and audio books were his kick when we lived together.” Steve glanced at Bucky again, searchingly, like he was seemingly trying to withhold himself from saying something. “But yellow tulips mean that I think there’s sunshine in your smile.”

“Stevie,” Bucky breathed reverently, a little shocked. He tried not to read into the situation—he’d known Steve longer than he’d known himself, and Steve was generally an open and giving person. It had nothing to do with Bucky singularly, or any of the supposed feelings he felt for his former best friend.

“Well,” Bucky expertly deflected from the subject, “do you care to tell me why there’s a horse in my goddamn shop then?” The tense, gravid atmosphere cracked and crumbled, replaced with something simpler and less volatile.

 “He has no regard for personal space and only sleeps on the left side of the bed.”

Bucky reached forward to pat the large dog, unsure of whether he was friendly or not. The animal had a broad, kind face and a thick coat of brown fur with dark features. The lumbering mass of fur licked Bucky’s fingers before straining forward, nuzzling at his open palm.

“His name’s Cap. He’s a Leonberger I picked up from the pound when I was twenty because I was sick of coming home to an empty house.” Unbeknownst to Bucky, Steve valiantly tried to ignore his idyllic fantasies of returning home to Bucky and Cap stretched out on his couch, swallowing at the sight of Cap reaching out to Bucky with is paw in an aborted shake.

Bucky flicked his wicked gaze to Steve. “Set the beast loose.”

Steve was right—the moment he unleashed his dog he was clambering over Bucky, causing him to unsteadily shake on his bent haunches, and then he was helplessly sprawled out over the floor. Bucky laughed, the sound deep and rich with unbridled mirth, as Cap indulgently licked his chin.

“As much as I want to run away with your dog, Rogers, I think he weighs more than you do. And he’s currently standing on my chest.” Bucky wheezed pitifully, weakly ruffling Cap’s scruff in an attempt to be diligently playful.

In the worst display of forward-thinking skills known to man, Steve knelt beside Bucky to gently ease Cap off his chest, although the former’s grand master plan soon ended with both men pinned to the ground under all one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of slobbering dog.

Bucky found a handful of Steve’s coat halfway through the struggle to find air and he held fast, bringing Steve closer until he was pressed flush to his side, both of them giggling—yes, they were fucking _giggling_ —like idiots.

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s pretty clear that,” Steve dropped his voice to a deathly serious whisper, “the force is strong with this one,” Steve lamely remarked, his nose pressed to Bucky’s thick head of hair amidst their entangled limbs, a steady heartbeat echoing under Bucky’s palm.

“That was quite possibly the lamest _Star Wars_ reference ever, Rogers.”

“It was pretty wizard and you know it.”

“Don’t bring the prequels into this, you swine.”

Bucky was content to remain on the floor of his tattoo parlour for the rest of the day—needling Steve over pathetic pop culture references, at the mercy of a ridiculously large dog—but duty called. Both he and Steve had to run a business, and it filled Bucky with a cold sense of dread if Sam or Clint happened to walk in on them—he’d never hear the end of his obvious crush for their resident florist.

“C’mon.” He said. “Get up, we must.”

“Mm-hmm, talk weird, I do.” Steve said in his best follow-up imitation of Yoda, the unashamedly amused smile evident in his voice.

Bucky ignored the pang of nostalgia at the pure, unalloyed joy in Steve’s general ambience. It’d been so long since he’d been allowed to be happy without a reason, to laugh until his chest ached with the force of it, to be lulled into a sense of security through simply basking in another person’s presence.

In a fleeting, breath-stealing moment, Bucky swore he felt Steve smile against his head and linger there for a few otherworldly seconds. But then Steve pulled back, working to lever Cap off them, and a maw of space suddenly stretched vast and open between him and Bucky. Steve stood, holding his hand out to Bucky, who fit their palms together and held.

And then they were standing, grinning at each other and hands clasped between their chests. Steve opened his mouth to speak and Bucky’s pulse thudded in an abrupt staccato beat. However, Steve shook his head and Bucky dropped his hand, and once again they were merely best friends reunited—nothing more and nothing less.

Steve turned to pick up the tulips he’d left abandoned on the back of the couch and offered them to Bucky silently. When his fingers closed around Steve’s lightly and Bucky took the flowers, he noticed the flash of dark ink on the inside of his right wrist.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Bucky gripped Steve’s wrist firmly with his free hand and turned it over so he had an unobstructed view of his tattoo. “Is this a tattoo I see?” He tucked the tulips between the crook of his elbow and his side to secure Steve’s arm in a steady hold.

It was a modest design, detailing three birds in different positions. The first was patiently perched on a black line with its head cocked to the side just under the flesh of his thumb. The next had just stretched its wings open, and the third bird was suspended in flight, wingtips grazing the curve of Steve’s wrist.

Transfixed by the simple beauty of the artwork, Bucky cradled Steve’s wrist in his hand as if his bones were smaller, as if he was a boy made of glass once again. Bucky ran his thumb over the first bird reverently, glancing up at Steve—staring at their shared point of contact, quiet and solemn, but undauntedly so. And then Steve raised his other wrist, fingers closed against his palm. In a continuation of his tattoo, the fourth and final bird on his alternate wrist were in full-flight, gliding over the cursive lettering of a name— _Sarah_.

“You gotta take me to visit your mom soon, okay?” Bucky said in a hushed breath, unwilling to look at Steve again, instead focusing on the tattoo which was dedicated to his mother.

“She’d like that.”

Later, Clint stomped inside wearing a ridiculous leather vest that revealed his archery-strong arms and pale jeans that were more ripped than whole, the laces of his purple Converses loose and filthy. He raised a newly bandaged hand to his ear, adjusting his hearing aid so he could properly listen to the KC & The Sunshine Band—it was no secret he had a deep and unfounded adoration for terrible disco music and peppy 80s hits. A metal chain hung from his neck, the gaudy display of thin spikes compensating for his product-free hair, which was pushed to one side in a dirty blond hank.

Bucky watched Clint cha cha real smooth to where he waited, chin propped on his hand at the front counter, and he accepted the offering of peppermint tea with a lazy murmuring of thanks.

Clint promptly noticed the artful arrangement of yellow tulips and opened his mouth to make a teasing comment, but Bucky’s distractedly fond smile stopped him in his tracks.

Bucky made it his personal mission to uncover the mystery that was Steve’s other tattoos. He’d let it slip that Steve had six in total, a fact Bucky gleefully revelled in since he had already discovered half of them only three weeks after his marked reunion with Steve.

Nat had casually tacked up a shorthand list to the wall behind the front counter in The Red Star barely two days in, and the entire staff and most of the customers had a running bet on when Bucky would find all six. Clint may have also been running another completely different kind of bet—although it still primarily focused on Steve and Bucky—under the counter.

Bucky glanced at the list on his way to Brooklyn Bouquets on his lunch break, as he spent most of his free time with Steve anyway.

Written in Nat’s efficient, neat handwriting was:

_Bucky Barnes’s intrepid quest to get Steve Rogers as naked as possible (or the way in which Bucky needs to see Steve not-naked to date him and then become naked):_

Bucky knew it was a joke, and he knew Nat had seen him swallow thickly at the words, but Bucky had weakly brushed it off. He chastised Nat for the meandering title, suggesting that it needed to be shorter and catchy. And upon seeing the list for the first time Steve had blushed, his tan skin deepening to a dark shade of red beneath his collar. Bucky knew Steve was a full-body blusher and the colour would travel further down—although he valiantly tried to halt his train of thought at Steve’s imagined waistband, and promptly failed.

The first addition to the list was:

_Wrist – Sarah Rogers (we all support her impending sainthood, Rogers)._

Second:

_Neck – So It Goes (Kurt fucking Vonnegut)._

In regards to the unveiling of Steve’s second tattoo, Bucky had to raise an appreciative hand to whatever deep-rooted intuition drove him to visit Steve a week after he’d met Cap. Thankfully Brooklyn Bouquets had been devoid off all life when he’d walked inside, excluding the slobbering mass of dog and his hulking plaid-clad owner.

“I think you deserve your own flowers too, Stevie,” Bucky had announced, hopping up onto the counter, legs dangling over the edge. He smiled as Cap had jumped up—paws resting on Bucky’s lap and tongue lolling happily—to greet Bucky. “Especially considering that I don’t think anyone’s ever had the audacity to buy a florist a bouquet before, y’know, in a sign of affection and all that.”

“Really?” Steve raised an eyebrow, his smile a picture of pure and utter exasperation—even if it was anything but.

“Really-really.”

Steve snorted, standing close to Bucky, levering his weight on the hand curled near Bucky’s thigh on the counter. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, to appease the sap hidden beneath the lumberjack-broad shoulders and affinity for long-sleeved farmer shirts, what’s your favourite?”

Steve looked at his feet shyly before raising his gaze to Bucky’s. “We did just get a nice display of red chrysanthemums in. And they’re only available in fall, so count yourself lucky on that one, Buck.”

“No, don’t use your florist voice on me,” Bucky dismissed the suggestion swiftly, missing the significance of Steve’s slightly crestfallen expression (red chrysanthemums symbolised a proposition to start a relationship). “I want passion here, Rogers. Give me something that you’ve always wanted, not because of their seasonality or price, just something that _you_ want.”

Steve eyebrows creased together thoughtfully as he mulled over Bucky’s words. Instead of picking something purely based on physical appeal, Steve handed Bucky a limited chart detailing the meanings of flowers.

“Surprise me.”

Bucky scoured the list, surreptitiously avoiding flowers that symbolised enduring love or affection, and settled on something simple and sweet. He trailed through the maze of greenery and flowering plants, nervous in his actions under Steve’s vigilant gaze. Bucky found a cluster of bright, yellow daffodils, fingers brushing the soft, trumpet-shaped flowers before pulling three slim stems from the arrangement.

Steve smiled at Bucky’s approach. “Daffodils?” He inquired.

“It said new beginnings or something like that.” Bucky offered in reply, staunchly avoiding acknowledging the alternative meanings— _unrequited love, you’re the only one_.

“Daffodils also have six petals, which is a harmonic number,” Steve started, oblivious to Bucky’s inner turmoil. He walked to the other side of the counter and bent down, revealing a strip of exposed skin at the back of his neck. “And the numerical energy also signifies temperance, calm, truth and balance. And the colour yellow is associated with the solar plexus chakra, which signifies—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupted, the smirk practically evident in his voice.

“What?” He looked up from his position seated low on his haunches.

“‘So it goes’?”

Realisation dawned in Steve’s eyes after a moment and he rubbed his neck abashedly. “Yeah. _Slaughterhouse-Five_ was an obsession of mine for a while there. Still is, actually.”

“I should’ve fucking knew you read Vonnegut. You always had a kink for anything that debated the ethics of the moralistic.” Bucky sighed at the memory of a young Steve Rogers, who had the views of a pacifist but instead acted as an activist. “But looks like I’m already a third of the way through your tattoos then, Stevie.” Bucky grinned then, maybe a little too excited at how close he was to having a not-date with Steve. “Two down and four to go.”

Bucky wandered out of the shop thirty minutes alter—and twenty minutes late. Steve watched Bucky’s broad shoulders pass through the doorway before dejectedly looking down at the printed symbolic meaning of the red chrysanthemums beneath his fingertips.

Third:

_Shoulder – Star (patriotic, I like it)._

Even though the weather had fully given way to the orange chill of autumn, a two-day period had succumbed to the sticky heat of summer’s last hoorah. Business had been slow all day, so Bucky had sent Sam home early, although that equated to lounging shirtless in the air conditioned comfort of Bucky’s office. Later, Bucky had stepped onto the sidewalk in a loose singlet, his bare skin already burning under the direct glare of sunlight. He had braved the heat with the intention of buying a takeaway milkshake at the corner diner, but a glimpse of movement inside Brooklyn Bouquets stopped him.

The sign on the open door read _Closed_ , but Bucky pushed inside anyway—Steve was the only one who worked there, despite a lean blonde and a mousy guy picking up a few spare shifts. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck, and Bucky hooked his aviator shades into his open collar.

“Hey, Stevie. You in there?” Bucky called out to the empty shop.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve’s reply was muffled, drifting from somewhere in the back.

Bucky found Steve in the back, standing over a sink and flushing his face with a cupped handful of cold water. And—

_Lord have mercy on Bucky’s soul._

Steve had abandoned his usual unbuttoned plaid shirt for a thin singlet, subjecting Bucky to the view of water running in rivulets over his neck and chest. The droplets glistened on Steve’s bare, golden skin, trailing down his body to the torn-off hem of his shorts. Bucky almost choked on his tongue—how was this man real and sweaty and in Bucky’s immediate presence?

“And this is the story of how I die,” Bucky whispered dramatically under his breath. And it was also the story of how he discovered Steve’s third and biggest tattoo, but it wasn’t like he had the ability to properly articulate coherent sentences at this point in time.

A five-pointed star was etched in thin black lines over the point of Steve’s shoulder, surrounded by three circles that were distanced by a width of two inches. The entire span of the tattoo encompassed most of Steve’s shoulder, tracing a line over the swell of his bicep and reaching halfway to his neck.

“Buck?” Steve questioned, a little worried at Bucky’s response—or lack thereof.

“Yeah,” he croaked. “What. Yes?”

“You okay?”

Bucky nodded his head vigorously, although he was anything but okay.

So, now—three weeks in and three tattoos already uncovered—Bucky was mighty optimistic that he’d be taking Steve on a not-date within the next month. Hopefully. Bucky waved a hand in goodbye to an occupied Clint, ensuring he received an acknowledged nod in return before setting forth to spend lunch with Steve.

“I think that’s the fourth _Star Wars_ T-shirt you’ve worn this week,” Steve said once Bucky had crossed the threshold inside, already having consumed his entire peanut butter sandwich in ravenous three bites.

“Your ridiculous outlandish taste in fashion can’t repel coolness of that magnitude!” Bucky exclaimed, striking a dramatic pose in the doorway—and succeeding in knocking over a nearby stand of vegetable seeds.

Steve snorted derisively at Bucky’s embarrassing lack of self-awareness.

“Fuck, Stevie.” Bucky glared witheringly at his best friend. “Next time warn a man, hey?”

Steve remained unmoved. “I think you deserve that after your horrific attempt at an Admiral Akbar reference.”

“It was _inspired_ , flyboy.”

Steve didn’t respond verbally, but he smiled and continued working studiously with the artful arrangement of flowers. His sandwich lay abandoned by the off-cast stems and petals on the wooden counter.

Bucky frowned. “You need to eat, Rogers. The artist screaming inside you to express himself can wait ten minutes.”

“I’m nearly done.”

Bucky rounded the counter and batted Steve’s hands away, slotting into his place. He tried to ignore the heat and breadth of Steve pressed to his back, who was shocked at Bucky’s forward insistence. Bucky tried to concentrate on the arrangement and not the hot breath of air blooming across his neck; he wasn’t thinking about Steve’s lips, he _wasn’t—_

“Okay, you win. I’ll eat.” Steve said suddenly, like the words caught him by surprise. His presence receded from Bucky and Steve sat on a nearby stool, reaching for his sandwich. “Thanks,” he mumbled a moment after, fingers brushing Bucky’s arm in gratitude.

“I swear, Stevie. You’d be lost without me.”

Again, Bucky missed Steve’s reaction—the slight parting of his lips, the whispered _I am_ —as he was abuzz with the quiet pleasure of making Steve look after himself. “What is this anyway? Just something you threw together?” Bucky asked, turning to Steve and eyebrows furrowing at his tense expression.

“Ah, no,” Steve shook his head, glancing away. “It’s fall-themed. I made a few others before, to mark the seasonal change and all.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the row of arrangements he’d prepared earlier.

Bucky followed his gaze. He crossed his arms and prompted, “Well? Get your florist geek on.”

A corner of Steve’s mouth quirked upwards, his previous odd behaviour having completely vanished. “In the Mason jars I paired the light, feathery heads of rust-red amaranth with pale-green protea, which a more muscular tropical flower.” He gestured at the display of greenery, the colours dark and scent heady. “The lanky millet grass offers a subtle undertone that really makes the amaranth and protea stand out, and I filled in the gaps with wispy green clouds of lady’s mantle.”

Steve turned in his seat to gesture at the bright yellow flowers lining the bottom of the wall. “The tall, dark urns really offset the cheerful topiary of sunflowers, chrysanthemums and fuzzy kangaroo paws shaped into a cone. It acts as a point of interest in the room, and you gotta admit all that yellow is cheerful _as shit_.”

Then Steve gestured at the mismatched collection of other terra cotta pots that gleamed with a dull yet aesthetically pleasing patina. “And the pale brown of the pot here perfectly complements the loosely interwoven dark greens and oranges, with hints of sunnier colours of amaranths, snowberries, crab apples, and blue viburnum berries.”

“Well, shit,” Bucky said—it was his best imitation of Varric yet, paying homage to his favourite drily sarcastic and manly barrel-chested dwarf. “That’s, um—” He grappled for the right words, coughing awkwardly. “That’s some fine flower know-how you have there, Rogers. Keep up the good work.”

Steve merely smiled at Bucky, edging dangerously close to a smirk.

“Oh, laugh it up, fuzzball,” Bucky said loftily, hooking an arm around Steve’s neck and ruffling his hair. Steve voiced his indignant complaints, valiantly trying to fend Bucky off and reaching around to tickle him in the ultimate form of torture.

“You’re the walking carpet here with that hair!” Steve countered, delighting in Bucky’s high-pitched cries of terror. Bucky writhed in Steve’s grasp, although the latter held him firmly in place.

“Laser brain.”

“Bantha fodder.”

“Crazy old man.”

Steve pulled away suddenly, his hair mussed and eyes narrowed critically. “That was a low blow. You know how much I adore Obi Wan, both versions, even if Ewan McGregor is like the pinnacle of all my adolescent Jedi fantasies.” His arms persisted in their unbreakable lock around Bucky’s waist, holding him half-on Steve’s lap as Steve waited for a Kenobi-related apology.

Bucky remained silent for a moment before lowering his head and whispering seriously, “The puns will return, and in greater numbers.”

Steve shook his head. “And to think I was going to willingly show you one of my tattoos, Buck.”

Bucky jolted, nearly dislodging Steve’s grip on him—although the last thing he wanted to do was sever direct contact with Steve. “You gotta show me now, Stevie,” he pleaded. “C’mon.”

Steve raised an expectant eyebrow.

Bucky sighed in resignation, knowing exactly what fate had befallen him: “Obi Wan Kenobi is pretty wizard.” He looked at Steve stonily. “There, I said it, you happy?”

“Yep.”

Steve gently manoeuvred Bucky off his lap, attuned to the lingering weight of Bucky’s hand on his bicep, and he smiled inwardly. They had both forgotten how easily banter had been swapped between them, how comfortable and quick they were to touch and wrestle and laugh—Steve and Bucky had forgotten how their lives had been inexplicably, seamlessly interwoven together. Bucky drew his fingers along Steve’s cheek under the guise of running a hand through his hair for a final time.

Both of them paused in the airy, well-filtered light of Brooklyn Bouquets for a moment too long, and then they were pulling away, avoiding eye contact and the burgeoning swell of emotion. Steve pulled the left hem of his knee-length pants up, revealing the flesh of his thigh just above the knee.

 “It’s one of Banksy’s works,” Steve explained as Bucky traced the palm-sized tattoo.

“You got it because of the poetic justice of the thug throwing a bouquet of flowers instead of a Molotov cocktail, didn’t you?” The man was outlined in simple black, and he was poised to throw the flowers as it was a deadly weapon, even if it was the only display of colour within the design. It was a stark contrast.

“It’s not just about that, Buck.” Steve’s voice was quiet, contemplative. “It’s about fighting with more than just weapons, that a peaceful resolution can be found despite the circumstances, and everything doesn’t have to be achieved through harm.”

“You’re far too good for this world, Stevie,” Bucky said after a moment’s lapse, wishing he could kiss Steve but knowing he couldn’t anyway. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

Steve’s gaze widened at the admission and Bucky stood up abruptly, rushing to rectify himself. “Because you’re my best friend, not that I—” _Shit, don’t say it_. “Well, I do, I mean—” _Fuck. Just shut up Barnes._

“Bucky, calm down, I can never remember not loving you.” Steve said reassuringly, gathering Bucky into a quick hug that managed to steal his pathetic breath away. “You know that, right?”

“Right.” Bucky prayed that his voice didn’t break.

“Go on, get outta here,” Steve gently guided Bucky towards the door. “Your lunch break ended about five minutes ago and I need to finish these arrangements by the end of the day.”

Bucky reached the doorway in a daze, cursing himself for not saying it back. God, he couldn’t even tell Steve he loved him back like a normal fucking human being.

“You know, my mom’s making pot roast this Sunday,” Steve mentioned in an offhanded fashion once Bucky’s hand had closed around the doorknob, although it seemed anything other than offhand.

“And?” Bucky prompted. Tentative. Tremoring. Hopeful.

“She said she wouldn’t mind it if you joined us.”

According to Steve, Bucky’s answering smile somehow seemed more vibrant than the entire roomful of blooming flowers. “Sign me right the fuck up, Rogers.” He paused in the doorway before adding casually, “And tell Sarah that I’m making a potato salad in hopes of wooing her son with my mad culinary skills.”

Steve grinned at the joke, as did Bucky—but the joke had long since begun to wear off, because Bucky was playing for keeps. And when Bucky rushed back into The Red Star, Clint caught sight of his exuberant smile and gave him a triumphant thumbs-up when his client was distracted. Later, Clint would scrawl the details of Steve’s fourth tattoo on the wall.

Four:

_Knee – Banksy (truly a work of art, much poetic justice)._

After Bucky had disappeared into the bowels of the shop, murmuring to Sam about dining on Sarah Roger’s legendary roast with Steve, Clint reluctantly slid a twenty-dollar bill over to Nat as she surreptitiously handed him a portfolio of nature-themed tattoos to show the client.

Nat and Sam had been unofficially invited to Bucky’s apartment before he spent the evening with Sarah and Steve. He was nervous, of course. Also mildly relieved that his friends were there, but still primarily terrified at their direct involvement in his romantic love life.

“Why do you even own this?” Sam asked, holding up a sweater vest gingerly.

“I panicked, okay? I wanted to make a good impression, so think yourself lucky I didn’t stoop so low to buy elbow patches.” Bucky shrugged helplessly, standing defeated in the middle of the room, underdressed and unconfident.

Sam raised an eyebrow, his expression flatly unamused. “Sarah wants to meet Bucky, not some 70s music teacher who sells bootleg cassettes and a little weed on the side.”

“All I own is leather. Or studded.”

“Or artfully ripped,” Nat added.

Bucky glanced at her witheringly. “Not helping.”

“Bucky,” Sam started, placing his hands on the brunet man’s shoulders. “Did Sarah Rogers ever do anything to make you feel uncomfortable or inferior?”

Bucky shook his head sombrely.

“Then a few piercings and ink won’t impact her good judgement, especially when she knows Steve loves you just the same as he did when you were younger. They are the best people I know.” Sam adopted a lighter tone. “The worst thing that could happen is she laughs at your fucking deplorable excuse for an article of clothing with that vest.”

He turned to Nat for support. She nodded on cue, perched serenely on the lip of his hastily made bed, purple lipstick starkly coloured in the fading afternoon light. Bucky knew the simple arrow resting at the base of her neck could only signify her long-time friendship and debatable romance with Clint, but the oversized Eagles shirt she wore belonged to Sam. Bucky smiled to himself, hoping his friends were happy—all three of them.

Sam searched for a shirt that was somewhat respectable, although still innately punk, and Nat took care of everything else. By the end of it, Bucky felt like he had undergone some magical Disney transformation from peasant to princess. Steve was already a modern day prince anyway, so the comparison fit.

His meddling friends had settled on a simple white shirt with a picture of the Death Star emblazoned across his chest, the sarcastic text beneath reading _All About That Base_. He wore a buttercream jacket over a pale set of jeans—skin-tight, of course, but not as ripped as usual—and laced desert boots. Nat had vetoed removing his jewellery, and he’d left his hair unbound and conditioner-silky to soften the angular lines of his face.

Sam and Nat kicked him out of his own apartment armed with nothing but directions written on a scrap of paper and a few crumpled notes to buy some flowers. Yes, he was buying flowers for a florist’s mother. He could still be a gentleman if need be.

Bucky arrived at a brick apartment block with a rickety fire escape, steeped in a thousand different memoires of his childhood sometime later. Glancing heavenwards, he quickly spotted an over-flowering flower box, filled with blooming blue forget-me-nots. He smiled at the sight and didn’t try to linger at the doorstep Bucky had farewelled a smaller, younger Steve.

He hesitated the door once before knocking.

Bucky didn’t know why he had been so nervous, why he had agonised over his appearance and the multitude of change he had undergone, because it was Sarah Rogers. And the moment the door opened she smiled brightly, slightly more worn but still open and warm like her son, and enfolded Bucky into a tight hug. Sarah near crushed Bucky’s potato salad and his measly offering of a sunflower, but he didn’t care.

“I missed you, James,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Steve did too. Terribly.”

Bucky couldn’t articulate more than a choked attempt to speak, so instead he held her tighter. A few seconds later he heard a set of approaching footsteps, the tread familiar in weight and pace, and he glimpsed Steve enter his field of vision. Sarah released Bucky, and he instinctively reached for her, only for Steve to slot into her place.

His body was larger, and stronger, but it still inherently felt the same. Like apple pie and sunshine and forget-me-nots growing on a barren window sill. Bucky allowed himself to rest in Steve’s presence, to drown in it, for the overwhelming sense of home to wash over him. And when Steve pulled back he paused, their lips a scant few inches apart, and Bucky’s breath caught. But Steve turned his head away, embarrassed, once he noticed his mother was only standing a few feet away.

“Welcome home, James,” Sarah said, and Bucky’s mind centred on that same word again— _home, home, home_.

He knew he was home. He knew exactly what home entailed, and who represented that feeling of wonderful contentment without fault, who hadn’t left his heart for more years than he wished to count.

When all three of them had reunited, properly, and turned to shuffle down the hall, Sarah had the innate kindness to ignore how Steve and Bucky’s hands closely intertwined between them. Having already shyly handed Sarah his sunflower, Bucky nearly dropped his potato salad when his fingers threaded with Steve’s, but it was worth it.

 _So_ worth it.

The night trickled by at the steady, luxurious pace of dripping honey. The apartment was small and tidy, the shabby appearance of second-hand furnishings undermined by the pleasantry of personalised items and assorted knick-knacks. It wasn’t perfect, but it was whole. It was lived-in.

As it turned out, Sarah’s pot roast was still admirably legendary. All of three of them had assembled around the small circular kitchen table, conversation at first strained but then slowly flowing the same familiar ease of childhood memories. Bucky had released Steve’s hand upon sitting down, but he felt Steve grip his knee lightly under the tabletop when Sarah was preoccupied with dinner.

He glanced searchingly at Steve, wondering not for the first time that night if their relationship had progressed onwards from friends. Bucky knew everyone in his past and future would remain forever unparalleled to Steve, that he’d never so devotedly love someone that wasn’t him. But how would he know if Steve wanted that? How would he know if he was ever truly worthy of Steve?

Steve lightly squeezed Bucky’s knee, dipping his head forward to find his vacant gaze. Bucky smiled thinly, offering some semblance of reassurance before Steve reluctantly pulled away to diligently help his mother prepare their meal.

Bucky sighed, eyes trained on the broad width of Steve’s back as he sidled next to Sarah. The sight was nostalgically reminiscent of every second he’d spent in the Rogers’ collective company, of the wistful pining for a true home, but now the feeling had deepened, strengthened. He loved Steve romantically, but he would settle for platonically if that’s only what he was comfortable with—Bucky’s own wants be damned. Steve would always be his friend first.

Sarah and Steve set the table, politely declining Bucky’s delayed offers to help. The spread was hearty but by no means lavish, every prepared plate and bowl of food amassed around the centrepiece, which was Bucky’s simple sunflower.

After they had joined hands and quietly said grace, Steve leaned closely to Bucky and asked, “Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded tightly. “Just a little… overwhelmed.”

Steve looked disbelieving, but his smile was a constant source of sunny assurance. “Buck?” He prompted gently.

Bucky wanted to say he loved Steve, that he had ever since they were kids and would likely never stop, but he couldn’t. Not in front of his mother, not when the fallout could hurt Bucky’s most treasured family. At the revelation, Bucky pulled back fractionally, his heart already horribly tearing apart at Steve’s expression of concern and pain. Sarah, who was ever the saintliest woman, pretended to be enamoured by cutting her meal into edible portions.

But instead of ignoring what had transpired between them, Steve surged forward and kissed Bucky’s cheek. The brunet startled, unsure of how to react. Steve’s lips lingered on his skin, and he only relented to lean his head against Bucky’s, fingers wrapping around the flesh just above Bucky’s elbow.

“I love you,” Steve whispered, pressing another wet kiss near Bucky’s ear.

All coherent thought escaped him, and Bucky was rendered mute.

The same words, repeated: “I love you, Buck.”

Steeling himself, Bucky managed to turn and rest his forehead against Steve’s. He blinked rapidly to control the slight welling of tears before meeting Steve’s blue, blue eyes. They were soft, and kind, and unerringly understanding. Bucky nodded stupidly, wishing he could so much more, wishing he could talk and scream or simply voice his likewise reply.

Steve waited a beat before drawing back, causing Bucky to almost fall forward in Steve’s absence of steady support. Taking a moment to compose himself, Bucky smiled tearfully at Sarah in apology and blindly groped for Steve’s hand a few halting seconds later.

For the remainder of the meal Steve didn’t let Bucky go, not once.

Slightly terrified of what would happen after the meal ended, Bucky was saved from further humiliation as Steve accidentally upended half of the gravy boat on his shirt and excused himself to change. Once he was finally able to breathe, Bucky braced himself against the kitchen counter once Steve had left. He felt a small, delicate hand brush over his back.

“I think Steve did that intentionally,” Sarah said calmly.

Bucky meekly glanced at her over his slumped shoulder. “I’m worried I won’t be enough for him,” he admitted suddenly, his voice thick with unbidden tears. It was too much, just too much of what he’d been deprived of—love and happiness and home. “I’m worried I won’t ever be worthy of Steve. I want to give your son what he needs, Sarah, but I don’t think I can.”

“Oh, honey,” Sarah whispered soothingly, gathering Bucky into her arms for a hug.

Bucky cried silently, uttering no more sound than a barely disguised sob, and allowed himself to find solace in Sarah’s embrace. She ran her hand up and down his back once, lulling him into a state of golden-warm safety with a resonating hum of a forgotten song.

“Why don’t you go and talk to him, huh?” Sarah suggested.

“I’m a fucking mess though.”

Sarah benevolently let his curse slip. “Do you think that matters to him?”

Bucky sobered at the thought, shaking his head in answer.

“He loves you, James,” she affirmed, and although Bucky didn’t believe the statement, he started wanting too. “Now please talk to him, because he hasn’t talked about anything that hasn’t been you for the past few weeks. And you still _are_ his best friend, and you still _are_ the first person he loved that wasn’t me, so don’t punish yourself for the petty fear that Steve has ever loved you for being anyone else.”

Bucky sniffed, attempting to rectify his pitifully weepy display. He nodded once and said, “Alright. I’ll do it.” He hugged Sarah again, needing the silent encouragement. “Thank you, Sarah.”

“Anything for my boys.”

He trailed to Steve’s room nervously, both dreading and hopefully anticipating their impending conversation. Bucky stopped at Steve’s ajar door before reaching out to push it open. Steve’s back was turned to him, an expanse of tanned skin and toned muscle exposed as he pulled his sullied shirt from his arms. Steve’s fifth tattoo was laid bare on his back, revealing a spindly stencil of a large birdcage with the door hanging open.

“Steve?” Bucky called out hesitantly.

Steve whirled around, opening his mouth to speak, but Bucky beat him to it.

“You were my first crush,” he blurted, powering through before Steve could reply. “I loved you for so long I can’t even remember when it begun, but I still love you today. Never stopped.” Bucky couldn’t stop now, he’d gone too far. “And I regret not finding a way to stay in Brooklyn and being your first kiss, your first love, your first everything. I would’ve been whatever you wanted me to be, your friend or lover, whatever the fuck you wanted because I just wanted you, Steve.”

Steve stepped forward, his expression unreadable. Although Bucky couldn’t stop talking, he couldn’t let Steve talk because he didn’t want to hear his rejection even if it didn’t matter because then he’d at least be able to hope. He’d have that last shred of a chance that maybe Steve would want him, that maybe he could be enough, that maybe they could be happy.

“And do you wanna know why I have four Roman numerals instead of five?” Bucky asked desperately, not allowing Steve to talk as he brandished his said tattooed knuckles. “It’s because your birthday is on the fourth, and I didn’t want to forget that. I didn’t want to forget you. I never want to look at myself and not see the imprint of you, Steve, because you’re the best part of me. You’re the most important part of me, and I can’t let that go, I can’t—”

Bucky’s ramblings were abruptly cut short as Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, tightly, possessively. Steve held onto Bucky like he never had the intention of letting go, and the former was speaking too, whispering a thousand reassurances against Bucky’s forehead, cheeks, nose and lips. At the initial press of Steve’s mouth, quick but purposeful, Bucky pulled back, confused.

“Steve,” he gasped, “you don’t need to—”

“How many times do I need to say it, Bucky? _I love you_.”

“As in?” Bucky asked dumbly, however it wasn’t a dumb question. There were too many types of love for him to be unsure, to doubt what Steve felt for him. He _needed_ to know.

Steve smiled ruefully, this time kissing Bucky tenderly, affectionately. “As in I want to be with you in every possible way, as in I’ve also loved you so long I can’t remember when it begun. I told you I was the same person I was when you knew me as a child, and that child was too afraid to tell his best friend that he may not have felt attraction normally, but he knew he wouldn’t have wanted anything more than to ask his friend on a date.”

“Steve—” Bucky couldn’t articulate any response to Steve’s confession, his chest almost aching with the sheer intensity of his happiness, so instead he kissed him back.

Bucky’s hands—which had laid inert and useless by his sides before—now grasped Steve’s naked back, pulling him closer, nearer. One of Steve’s hand settled on Bucky’s lower back and the other entangled in his hair, fingers gripping it by the roots and holding. Bucky centred himself on the very feel and weight of Steve, unconcerned with anything else besides the familiar heat and solidity of his body. He knew he should take things slow, that he should really cherish Steve like he deserved, but he couldn’t seem to think past the seam of Steve’s lips.

Their kiss was rushed, and a little messy with inexperience, but to Bucky it was just another piece of Steve. Another part of him he would begin to learn, to remember intimately. Bucky had seen every version of Steve that kissing him just felt like another natural step in the process, like it was destined.

And they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.

Until their lips were kiss-swollen and sore, until Bucky had to stop his hands from traversing beneath Steve’s waistline, until Steve pulled back and they both panted wetly into each other’s mouths. Bucky leaned closely into Steve’s space, as did Steve, both relying on each other to remain standing. To remain as close as physically possible. To feel each breath rise and fall within their chests.

Bucky drew back, hating the distance it created, but resignedly knowing that lines had to be drawn. Nothing more could happen tonight, not so soon, and not in Sarah’s home. Then he noticed the flash of ink on Steve’s side, above his hip.

“What’s this?” He asked, fingertips grazing the indistinct shape.

Steve stepped away to turn on the lights—Steve and Bucky had stumbled against the wall at one point, slamming the switch into an off position. Bucky reeled him back in, already craving Steve, and slipped an arm around his waist whilst his free hand traced Steve’s sixth tattoo.

“Is this—”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted quietly, pressing a kiss to the crown of Bucky’s head. “It is.”

Bucky had once owned a blue trench coat that he wore until the elbows were thin and the fabric was worn with use, the colour faded, and on the bicep of his left arm had been a simple winged design. Although Bucky had lost his coat during the move overseas, Steve’s tattoo was an exact replica of his forgotten wing—of Bucky’s wings.

Bucky looked at Steve, awe and adoration kindled in his eyes.

“I love you,” Steve said again, smiling.

“I know.”

Steve hooked his arm around Bucky’s arm, jerking the latter towards him roughly. “Did you just Han Solo me?” He asked, laughing.

“And so what if I did?” Bucky jokingly pushed at Steve in reply, and their small scuffle soon erupted into a well-meaning wrestling match. Due to his smaller statue Bucky could only manage to fend off Steve’s brute strength, but once he was on the floor Bucky swiped Steve’s feet out from under him, and took him down with him.

Entangled in a giggling heap of supposedly adult bodies, Steve rolled over to rest on his elbows, looking down at Bucky with unalloyed affection and devotion. “You always were a stuck-up, scruffy-looking, half-witted nerf herder,” Steve said, grinning at Bucky’s outraged answer.

“You slimy piece of worm-ridden filth!”

When Steve and Bucky finally retreated from the former’s room, Sarah merely smiled at them knowingly, gaze flickering to their firmly joined hands. After talking hours into the night over a cold mug of tea and chocolate chip cookies, Bucky announced it was time to head home. At Sarah’s door, she hugged him once more, and Steve kissed him fleetingly on the lips, his fingers burning-hot over Bucky’s neck.

And when Bucky finally trailed home, warm and light with the afterglow of the Roger’s love—both of theirs, both different but still wonderfully meaningful—he added the final two tattoos to the list in The Red Star before returning to bed.

Five:

_Back – Birdcage (if that’s Vonnegut again I swear to god)._

The pen lingered over the page before Bucky documented the sixth and final tattoo, his smile glowing with residual happiness.

Six:

_Waist – My Wing (I love you, you fucking sap)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear at the end everything just became lowkey Bucky angst but sorry not sorry ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) also i apologise heartily for the super duper late update because I finished high school and Christmas/work/family volleyball games happened and you don't wanna hear my life story, but yeah. I also started writing a Kylo x Hux fic (coming to a theatre near you soon) like last week and someone sent me a nice message asking when I was gonna update this next and so I got hella inspired.
> 
> EDIT: I was gonna write a third chapter, but due to lost interest and mostly resolving everything in this chapter, I'll end it here. Thanks for reading!


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